


The Fantasy of Us

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Baby, Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-08 01:59:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8825809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Now that William's born, everything's changed.Spoilers for Bridget Jones's Baby, obviously.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place shortly after William's born in _Bridget Jones's Baby_. Let's pretend that they use an instant-return DNA paternity kit, okay?  
>  Disclaimer: Not my circus/monkeys.

So now he's born. Everything has changed.

I don't know what I thought I'd feel at seeing him in the flesh. Obviously, I knew him to be real—the protrusion of her stomach was real enough—but until that moment it was more of a nebulous theoretical.

There is nothing theoretical about the tiny fingers grasping my own.

We hadn't really gotten the chance to work things out before labour began. Not really. I had begun to speak, but then the waters broke, and… now, he's here, and all of it is uncertain beyond our love for our new son.

Everyone's gone now, and we're alone. Now what?

"Mark?" she asks quietly.

"Yes, Bridget?"

"Can you… find something for me to eat?" she goes on. "This whole thing with me locked out of my flat started because I went out to buy some things at Sainsbury's. My refrigerator was empty…"

Can't help smiling. I'm exhausted, but I can only imagine I'm half as exhausted as she is. "Of course," I say, gently withdrawing my finger from the now-sleeping baby's, then getting to my feet. "Where did you say you left your handbag?"

"Oh. Gosh." She's struggling to think. "The NatWest cashpoint I always go to, the one that's in a little room—you know? You need a card to get in? I was on my way home. But it's probably long gone."

I think I know the one. "I'll see what I can do about that, too, darling," I say, bowing to kiss her on the forehead. "Be back soon. Try to get some rest."

"I can't just yet. Too wired."

She looks utterly wrecked, but I have learnt enough about women—well, about _her_ —not to say so. "Try anyhow." Brushing my hand over her hair, I offer a smile and say goodbye.

The first thing I do is use a phone in the common area near the nurses' station to place a call to the Southwark Station (with which I'm unfortunately all too familiar) and explain briefly why I'm calling. They know who I am—we have a good relationship. My call's put through.

"Darcy, to what do I owe the pleasure?" A familiar voice from our past. DI Kirby, or rather DCI Kirby now.

"Tracking down my… a lost handbag. Have any been turned in from any enclosed NatWest cashpoints near you?"

"That's… really specific," he says, with some amusement in his tone. "And who are you asking for, anyway? No, wait. Let me guess. Ms Jones, eh? What a trouble magnet."

"It is indeed for Ms Jones," I say with a smile. "I think she's got a good excuse for once, though, for being a trouble magnet. She went into labour shortly after."

"I see," he says. After a beat, he adds, "And are congratulations in order, sir?"

I can't help smiling. "They are."

I can hear him chuckle low in his throat. "Ah, so you're on again," he says wryly. "Well, as a personal favour to you and your new little family, Darcy, I'll see what I can do about locating that cashpoint, or to see if the handbag's been turned in."

"Much appreciated. If you need to get in touch, we're at University College Hospital, under Jones," I say, then add, "I'm afraid I've, er, lost my own mobile trying to get her to hospital." It's not a total fabrication. I haven't seen it since I pitched it out of her open window, possibly striking a passer-by.

"Right. We'll be on the lookout for that too."

DCI Kirby always had been a bit cheeky, which I think is why I always found him amusing. I thank him, then put down the phone.

My next goal was food for Bridget. I was just glad that it wasn't later than it was; I just wasn't very familiar with what was nearby. So I turn to the nurse that's now at the station. Her nametag reads 'Megan.' "Hello, Megan," I say. She looks up from the chart she's reviewing. She's bright-eyed for this hour of the night, and I don't remember her from earlier. She must have just got here. She looks to my jaded eyes like she's roughly twelve. I point towards Bridget's room. "My—" I start this way for the second time in ten minutes, but I still don't know how to continue. My girlfriend? My baby's mother? "Ms Jones. Bridget. She's very hungry now that the baby's here. What do you think we might be able to find for her?"

She smiles brightly, knowingly. "I get this question a lot more than you might think," she says. She reaches, hands me a folder. "Here's a list and some menus for some 24-hour places that'll deliver here. At least to the receiving doors."

"Perfect," I say, looking through the list. Italian. Marvellous. Bridget never met a pizza she didn't like.

After I borrow the phone one more time to place an order I advise Megan that DCI Kirby might be calling for Bridget's room. She looks worried, so I have to assure her that it's nothing to worry about. "Bridget lost her handbag," I explain. "He's helping find it." Megan visibly relaxes.

So back to Bridget's room I go. Despite her proclamation, she's already fast asleep. A nurse is tending to the baby, now in his crib. To my son. The nurse turns and smiles at me; I don't get the opportunity to catch the name on her nametag because she turns away. As the nurse leaves, I come a bit closer to the crib. Tiny little life. I feel emotion wash over me.

There's peace in the room, and relative dimness, the quietest it's been ever since this all began. I can't help think that it was only hours ago that I was searching my bureau, found that bloody reindeer jumper… one that I shall treasure now for ever.

For a moment, I think about the improbability of the timing of this evening, and I shudder to think what Bridget might have done had I not gone to her flat tonight—

"Mark?"

I turn my head to see Bridget, looking sleepy-eyed up at me. I stride over to sit on the bed beside her, and speak quietly. "I've got food on the way. Pizza."

"Oh, Mark, I shouldn't…"

"You've just delivered a baby. I think you shouldn't worry so much about having a pizza."

She pursed her lips a little, but then smiled.

"I'm also working on your missing handbag," I say, taking her hand, holding it. "Well. Not me personally."

"So you do have minions," she said wearily. "I always knew it."

I love that she can still make me laugh. Or in this case, chuckle. "I made a call to the police, who are on it even as we speak."

"Really?"

I nod. "DCI Kirby sends his regards."

She grins, then starts to laugh a little, then grimaces in pain, moving her hand to her abdomen. "It hurts to laugh."

"Oh, I should have thought of that." I bring my hand up, cup her face in my hand, stroke her cheek with my thumb. "What a day."

"Mm," she says, closing her eyes, leaning into my hand. Then she looks at me, a slight, knowing grin playing on her lips. "I'm so glad you turned up. Not sure I could have done this without you."

"You absolutely could have," I assure her.

"Okay," she amends, "I'm glad I didn't have to do it without you."

"Jack was here," I say.

"Not the same." She places her hand atop my own.

We sit in silence for a bit before I hear the door to the room creak open. "Mr Darcy, sir." I turn to see Megan. "There's a call from the night receptionist downstairs. Your delivery's here."

I rose. "That's my cue."

I met the delivery driver at the night receptionist's desk—thinking briefly of my service to Gianni that evening—and pay him with a £50. "Keep the change," I say with a smile.

"Thanks," the young man says. I hear him then mutter to himself as he heads for the door, "I love delivering here."

I go back upstairs with our pizza to find that she's sat up a little further in anticipation of food. The nurse has brought up a couple of bottles of sparkling water, some paper serviettes and plates. From where these came, I don't know, and I don't care to ask, because I'm suddenly ravenous. I serve us each slices, open our water bottles, and take a seat on the padded recliner near the bed. We eat in relative silence until there's nothing left.

When we're done, I sit back in the chair beside the bed, pleasantly full, and take a long draw of water. She's leaning back on the pillows too, looking drowsier than ever before.

"All of that pizza, and I'm still smaller then when the baby was in there," she jokes. 

"Speaking of the baby," I say, "we can't keep calling him 'the baby'."

"Hm, yes, good point," she says, then asks, "I suppose 'Jack' is right out now, hm?"

What can I do but laugh? "I'll have to give that some thought."

"You do that."

My eyes feel heavy, and with my gaze trained on her, it's not long until I'm off to sleep. I only realise this when I wake in a darkened room. Someone has placed a blanket over my lap and a pillow in the crook of my arm. Bridget's fast asleep, too. As badly as I would like to climb in beside her, the bed's not made for two, so I console myself with thinking perhaps soon enough. I push the chair back into a reclining position, then fall back into a deep sleep.

… … …

Sleep, as blissful and restful as it is, doesn't last as long as I'd like. With morning light comes the bustle of the duty nurse, checking in on Bridget, making sure she's not in pain, making sure her blood pressure and pulse are in a good, normal range, making sure there are no additional complications related to the birth. Bridget passes the checks with flying colours. I'm not surprised, not at all.

"Breakfast will be here soon," says the nurse, whose name I don't catch, and then she is gone.

"Sleep all right?"

She nods. "Weird dreams, though," she adds. "And up to feed the baby."

"I didn't hear that at all. I'm sorry."

She smiles. "Not much you could have done, Mark. But just wait, there will be nappies to change…"

I reach and take her hand, squeezing it. "I'll be there, Bridget."

Tears unexpectedly fill her eyes, spill over onto her cheeks. "I'm glad," her mouth says, but little sound comes out. I sweep my thumb under her eyes to brush the wetness away. She sniffs, then winces in pain.

"Ah, I've arrived just in time for the big drugs, I see." Dr Rawlings, whom I suddenly want to throw my arms around in a deeply grateful embrace. Instead I only stand, and it's then I realise the pizza detritus has been taken care of. "I came to see how you're doing." She looks at me, smirking slightly. "I somehow suspected you might stay the night here with your new little family. Some catching up is in order, hm?" To my surprise, she winks at me.

She then turns back to Bridget and asks her how she's feeling (sore), how the baby's been (very good), if she's been to the loo (yes—I must have really been out of it), if the lactation consultant has been in (not yet). Like the nurse earlier, she too makes notations on a chart. 

"I'll get more of the pain meds to you, then," she says. She looks thoughtful. "No name yet, then?"

I shake my head, and Bridget does too.

"Hm. Well. Do try to come up with something before you take him home, will you?" She says it with a smile, though, and claps me on the shoulder. "Congratulations, again."

"Thank you."

With that, she's gone, passing just outside the door the person who bore our breakfast on a tray. Orange juice, banana, toast, oatmeal for two.

"Cheers, darling," I say, clinking my glass against hers. "So surely you have been thinking about names."

"Mm-hmm," she says, meeting his gaze over the edge of her orange juice glass as she sips. "Have you?"

I nod that I have. Primarily, I have been thinking about an argument we had years ago, one that had led to us breaking up for a good portion of that year. Maybe she has been too. I'd had my own thoughts for a name in case he was mine. Or for even if he wasn't. "What's at the top of your list?" I ask. She knows him best.

"Not 'River'," she says with a small, sheepish grin. She _is_ thinking of that argument. "I actually did have something in mind. And I'm all the more inclined now that we… know." She doesn't need to explain.

I gesture encouragingly, then reach for her hand.

"I never wanted to name a son after his father, make him a junior," she said. "As you've always said, a child is a person is their own right. But I do want to honour his father in some way. So. What do you think of 'Fitzwilliam'?"

Ever since she learnt early on of my middle name—my mother evidently has a rich sense of humour—Bridget has loved teasing me with Austen jokes. At first I think she is joking… but I see she's not. "I appreciate your thoughtfulness in this, but perhaps 'Fitzwilliam' is a bit much, especially as I'd prefer him to not be teased in the schoolyard," I say, then smile. "What about 'William' instead?"

She smiles, too. "I think it's perfect. William. William Darcy." 

"I think that his mother deserves to be honoured, too," I add, suddenly inspired. "William Jones Darcy."

"Oh, yes." She grasps my hand again, then says, "We've come pretty far, I think."

"Yes, we have," I say. So far we've only agreed on a name, but with William as a real baby and not as some future theoretical… it will be easier to be his parent, to decide what's best for him, once we get to know him better. 

The nurse comes in with a small cup of what I learn momentarily are pills. The aforementioned pain pills. "Oooh, thank you," says Bridget, holding her hands out like a child wanting candy. I can't contain a smile. She pops her pills then lies back against the elevated head of the bed.

I ask, "Those will be all right for the baby if she's breastfeeding, right?"

The nurse—Julie, according to her name tag—looks at me with pursed lips as if to say, _Are you mental?_

"Of course they're all right," I amend. "Never mind."

The baby begins to fuss in his crib, so I get to my feet as Julie goes to the crib's side. It's obvious that he's soiled his little nappy, as the front of his sleepwear is damp. No time like the present to practice, I guess. Julie (who has apparently forgiven my faux pas) points out where the supplies are, and a few minutes later, he's clean, dry, and changed.

"Time for a feeding, I think," Julie said. "Have you seen the lactation specialist yet?"

"She hasn't been by, no."

"Soon, I'm sure," Julie says. "There've been no problems yet, correct?"

"Not at all."

Julie looks to me. "You can take him to his mum," she encourages with a smile.

I held my son shortly after his birth, and again last night after we got the results of the DNA testing… but I hadn't yet picked him up or carried him. I feel helpless. Julie seems to sense this, and shows me how to lift him safely. He's so little, so fragile, fits so perfectly in the crook of my arm.

"There you are," Julie says. "Like a pro. Now, I'll leave you to it."

Julie slips out, and I walk towards where Bridget reclines on the bed. She looks as happy as I've ever seen her. "Being a father suits you, Mark," she says.

I'm wearing a shirt from the day before. _Clothes_ from the day before. I am desperate for a shave and a hair-combing. But I take the compliment as it's meant. "That's a relief," I say lightly, "so thank you."

I sit beside her and angle my arms to transfer William into hers. She pulls aside the dressing gown and I watch the instinct kick in William turns his little head, his mouth puckering in anticipation.

My world, right here on this bed beside me.

………

After the lactation specialist checks in, Dr Rawlings comes to make her own final checks so that Bridget and the baby can be released. I pace outside in the hallway and ponder about where we go from here, both literally and in the broader sense.

If only I'd hear back from Kirby. 

"Ah. There you are."

I turn, wondering about the sheer coincidence of the appearance of the detective chief inspector. Older, greyer, thicker around the middle than I recall, but aren't we all? (Well, maybe not Bridget. Not anymore.) He looks pleased. And he has a large plastic carrier bag in each hand. One's a Sainsbury bag that he sets beside him.

"The good news, Darcy, is that we've tracked down Ms Jones' handbag and Sainsbury's bag. Appears that the next NatWest customer to the cashpoint brought it straight to the nearest police station. She was worried that its owner had been abducted or whatnot. Looks intact. Wallet, phone." He indicates the other bag.

"Fantastic," I say, taking it from him. I peer inside the handbag, see the bright pink puffball key fob and her iPhone. "Hope you'll let the woman know Bridget is quite all right."

"Of course."

I close the bag. "I assume you've got bad news if you're saying 'the good news' first."

"And the bad news is that your Blackberry also turned up. Shattered." Out of the larger bag, he pulls a polythene bag into which the phone's bits had been placed, to demonstrate how destroyed it actually was. "It accompanied a police report, made by a man who was walking down Bedale Street when it smacked him straight in the head before bouncing to the pavement and shattering." He slipped it back into the larger bag.

"Oh, God." 

"I'll have the constable who took the report contact the complainant to explain the extenuating circumstances," Kirby says with a wink.

"Thank you," I say, taking the bag from him, reaching down to pick up the Sainsbury bag too. I suspect anything needing refrigeration is beyond hope at this point.

A door swings open behind me. "Well, Mark, she's—Oh. Hello."

Dr Rawlings, of course. I make brief introductions, and explain why DCI Kirby has turned up.

"Well, a pleasure to meet you," says the doctor, then turns to me. "I was going to say she's ready to go home, and fortunately now she can."

I had thought briefly about where I might take her; my house is not equipped for a child. Not yet, anyway. "Thank you," I say to Dr Rawlings, and then I say it again to DCI Kirby.

"I'll, er, just be off then," says the man, tipping an imaginary hat. "Give the new mum my regards." Before I can ask him to come in the room, he turns and walks away.

"As will I," said Dr Rawlings. She regards me. I only have to wonder why for a moment. "Do you need the number for a taxi? I presume you will not want to carry her and the baby _back_ the whole way."

"Thank you, yes, I'd appreciate that." Bridget's phone's battery is usually low at the best of times, so I'm fairly certain that the phone's battery has no remaining life in it.

"I'll get that for you."

With that, I re-enter the room with her bags. She's sitting on the edge of the bed with the baby over her shoulder, patting his back gently, as if to encourage a burp. Her face lights up. "It's a miracle!" she says as I draw her handbag from the larger carrier bag. "How did he manage this?" I explain briefly the tale of the concerned lady patron of her bank. "Oh, bless her soul," she said. "Did DI—I mean DCI Kirby already leave? I'd love to thank him."

"He said to give you his regards." I sit beside her. "Doctor told me you're free to go."

"Yeah, and now I can let myself in without you breaking glass, thank goodness," she says. "Hold him while I get dressed?"

I hold my arms out to take him. She rises and hands him over, then takes her clothes towards the en suite. "Anyone could come bursting in," she explains, before I can even ask.

Her statement turns out to be prophetic, as this is when my parents turn up. I had asked Bridget's parents to let them know. I had told them back when I thought the baby was mine, before I knew of the Jack complication, and then my mother told me Pam had updated her otherwise. She said she understood, but it was a mortification to me. She'd told me she had only told my father that Bridget might not be pregnant after all. So I'm certain this is a total surprise to him. I'm not even sure he realises that I've split from Camilla. Actually… I am not sure that he ever realised that Bridget and I had split.

"Is this your son?" asks my father. "Durr, of course he is! Let me see him. Oh my. Look at that chin. That's a Darcy chin if ever I saw one."

"He's a beautiful baby," says my mother. "May I ask where his mother is?"

"In here," calls Bridget. "I'm getting dressed."

"Dressed? Already?"

"They don't keep women in hospital as long as they used to, Mother."

Bridget emerges from the loo, smiling, moving stiltedly as if in pain; I imagine that she is still in a great deal of pain. My mother goes over to her, smiling with her arms extended. "How are you doing, Bridget darling?"

"Very well, Elaine, thank you," she says. "An utter joy to not have a constant weight on my bladder."

Mother laughs. "I remember that all too well."

"Bridget, my dear, such happy news." My father turns to her, surprises me by offering his arms for a hug. "Congratulations to the both of you."

Bridget returns the hug. "Thank you, Malcolm."

I turn to my mother. "Want to hold him?"

"You don't need to ask me twice." I slip him into her waiting arms, and she coos and rocks the baby gently to and fro. "He is a darling. Have you named him?"

"William," offers Bridget. "William Jones Darcy."

"Very good, very sensible," says my father.

"So you're going home?" asks Mother. "How are you getting there?"

"I'm going to have to ring for a taxi," I explain.

"Nonsense! We can drive you."

"We don't have a child seat," I remind.

"Oh, I think you do."

We all turn at this new voice and look at the door. Standing there is Jack, smiling, carrying a car seat, freshly purchased from a nearby store.

Jack strides up to me, setting the box at my feet. He has attached a note to it, which I bend and detach to read: "Mark, Congratulations. To the victor goes the spoils. No hard feelings. –Jack." I chuckle, fold the note and stick it into my pocket, and offer my hand for a shake. "Thank you."

"Mark, who's this?" asks my mother. I think she already suspects.

"This is Jack. A—" I glance to Bridget. "—friend of hers. Well, a friend of mine, too."

"A pleasure, Jack, a pleasure," says my father, stepping forward to offer his hand. "Your timing's impeccable."

"Was hoping it would be. I thought you might be discharged soon." He grins, but I see his eyes go a little soft at seeing Bridget. "Good to see you on your feet. Feeling all right?"

"Feeling a bit high as a kite at the moment," she admits with a smile. "Still sore, but the meds have finally kicked in, so I don't care as much."

Jack suggested, "Shall we remove ourselves to the cafeteria, have a little coffee, and we can put the chair together?"

………

My mother, my father, and Bridget with little William—and Dr Rawlings, who stopped by to take a lunch break—all occupy one table in the hospital canteen, and Jack and I occupy another to assemble the part of the chair that needs assembling. I expect commentary, particularly from the doctor, but I am disappointed.

She bemusedly watches us struggle with assembly while she eats her sandwich. Once she's done, she gets to her feet. "Gentlemen," she says. "I've put enough of these things together. Allow me." She takes the part we've been struggling with, turns it around, and then pops it into place.

"These young chaps these days, can't put together a simple chair, I don't know," says my father with unexpected (and unwanted) lucidity.

"Cut them a break," Dr Rawlings says. "Everyone's a beginner at some point. And on that note, back to my rounds. Until your first check-up…"

We bid our goodbyes, and then we decide it's time to head back to Bedale Street. I thank Jack again, and so does Bridget, giving him a quick hug and peck on the cheek. I shake his hand again. We're never going to be best friends, but I have a feeling we'll stay in touch. 

I'm able to get the seat fitted in the rear of the vehicle. I insist upon driving. My parents seem perfectly content to fawn over William with him in the back seat. Bridget sits in the front. I take her hand, and with that, we drive southward.

Traffic seems normal, and by that, I mean the protest/rally that had so thwarted us the night before was now nowhere to be seen. I have to drive around the block a few times before I find a place to put the car. The walk's not too long, and there are enough of us to carry everything that needs carrying.

Someone has already boarded up the window I had broken, which I still feel quite badly about; I'm glad that security wasn't compromised for long. Bridget has her key, though, so we enter then head up.

"No wonder you keep in such nice shape, m'dear, with all these stairs; great pair of gams on you," quips my father. I know he means it in the best possible way.

I hear her chuckle softly to herself. "Hiker's legs," she says.

Amidst her apologies for her flat being a disaster (it's really not, all things considered), I turn to take in the flat, really see it, for the first time in a long time. With a sense of melancholy, I see that she has made many (if not all) of the changes we'd talked about when we first planned to remodel and then sell her flat. She's made it nicer and somehow cosier than before. I spot a small room that I think wasn't there before, and the silhouette of the baby crib within. The nursery.

"What a charming flat," says my mother with all sincerity. "Very homey."

Bridget smiles, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "A bit cramped at times, but it'll do," she says. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

My mother looks to me, oddly enough. "I think we'll leave you to settle in," she says. "Little guy probably due for a feeding, too. Is it all right if we drop back later? We can bring some supper for you."

At Mother's look and 'settle in' comment, I realise something: since the baby is a little early, Bridget is not quite ready for him. The crib is assembled, but there's nothing in it, no sheets or blankets. There are no curtains on the nursery window. I see the box with her own car seat beside the sofa, not assembled. She hasn't got a pram that I can see. I hope that there are at least some nappies in the nursery.

"That'd be really sweet, thank you," she says. 

My mother goes to her, puts a hand on her shoulder, pecking her cheek, then brushing her hand on William's small, downy head. "Until later, then."

"Goodbye, dear," says my father, also giving Bridget a kiss on her cheek, and surprising me by placing a kiss on the baby's forehead. "Welcome to the family, William," he says, surprising me even further. Must be turning into a bit of a softie in his old age.

In short order, we are alone, Bridget, William, and me. I meet her gaze. She smiles, then her lower lip wobbles. I know what's coming. She bursts into tears. I suspect she realises, as she stands there, that she hadn't done the prep she'd meant to do.

"It's all right," I say soothingly. I take William from her arms, and settle him into the car seat, which doubles as a baby minder. He's fast asleep. Then I take her into my own arms for a long, gentle hug.

"It'll be all right," I continue.

"Oh, I know," she says softly. "Right now, though, it feels impossible."

"You always manage to pull it off," I say with a smile. "And besides. I'll be here to help." I cup her face in my hand. "I've done some reading, but this parenting thing is all new to me, too. We can stumble through it together."

She snorts a little laugh through her tears. "You? Stumble?" she teases.

"I was moments from stumbling from the second I realised I needed to come to your flat last night," I say. "Wondering what I could say or do to make you realise that I was sincere about wanting you and him, whether he was my biological son or not. And now that we're here together with him… I finally feel like I'm not stumbling. I'm on solid ground again."

"But—" Her brow crinkles in confusion. "—you just said we can stumble through this together—"

"You know what I mean," I murmur, then bring my other hand up to hold her face. And then I kiss her. 

We are interrupted only when the baby begins to fuss. Without hesitation, she picks him up and quickly realises which end needs attention; the end that only she can do anything about right now. So she sits on her sofa and proceeds to pull her shirt up. I run into the kitchen and find a clean tea towel, since she didn't have anything right there to use.

First things first. Breakfast was a while ago, and dinner on the distant horizon. I look through the Sainsbury's bag and there's nothing terribly useful for now: some cheese, a couple of potatoes, a bottle of sparkling water, and ice cream that hasn't been ice cream for many hours now. There was nothing to constitute a proper lunch at all.

I'll give Gianni's a call. I know what she wants.

I ask Bridget for her phone, which is still in her handbag, and it is still dead. I pull it up then go to where I think her charger probably is, near her computer. I'm not wrong. There are a smattering of printed lists next to the computer. I avert my eyes as I move them aside to unearth the cable; I have a bad history with accidentally reading her personal writings.

I then decide I don't want to wait for the phone to charge enough to boot. I slip my coat back on. She looks at me with confusion. "Gianni's," I say, by way of explanation. She smiles. I reach for her key fob to let myself back in.

"Mark, wait," she says. I stand there holding the pink puffball in my hand. "Don't take that."

"I'm not feeling emasculated by pink, if that's your concern."

"Oh, no, I don't mean that," she says. "Take your own key back. They're in the drawer by the door."

"Oh." I do as she asks, then walk over to plant a kiss on the crown of William's head, then kiss Bridget, too. 

"The usual," she says.

"I know," I reply. "I love you."

Tears of happiness fill her eyes. "Love you too," she said. "Now go. I'm starving all of a sudden."

Gianni seems happy (and surprised) to see me; he comes as quickly around the bar as he can. "Ah! Mr Mark! How is Miss Bridget? She has the baby, yes?"

"She has," I say. "A boy."

He looks at me expectantly, no pun intended. He already knows the baby's a boy.

" _My_ boy," I elaborate.

"Oh! Congratulations!" Gianni takes my hand and shakes it enthusiastically. "Come, come; a toast to celebrate!"

"I just came down to order some lunch—"

"Ah, I insist. _Insist_! I have the kitchen make your favourite dishes," he says, "and a nice dessert for the new mama and papa. You have the drink with me while you wait."

It's an offer I can't refuse.

When he returns from barking instructions in Italian to the kitchen, he pulls out a bottle and then pours the amber liquid into two small tulip-shaped glasses. Grappa, which makes me laugh a little to myself. He gives me one. "To the new little Mr Darcy," said Gianni, lifting his glass, then clinking the edge of his against mine.

"Cheers," I say, then take a long sip off of the top. 

"You think you might bring her back, try again?"

"Definitely," I say. 

"Good, I'm glad," he says. "You just tell me when and I'll make sure the table is open for you." I nod, and then he steps away to take care of other customers.

I nurse my generously filled glass. It's not a large serving, but I'm not going to shotgun it, as the saying goes. Returning to the flat tipsy is not an auspicious way to start things as a family. And I want to set off on the right foot, not make the same mistakes I've made that kept Bridget and me apart for too long. I'll replace my mobile, but I'll need to do something about work. I need to be there for them. I want to be there for my son in a way that my father was not there for me.

Emotionally.

"Mr Mark? You all right?"

I snap out of it, look to my now-empty glass, look to the carrier bag all prepped and ready for me to take away. How much time was I in a trance? "Sorry. Thank you. How much do I owe you?" I reach for the wallet in my rumpled jacket.

He waves his hand. "Today, it is on the house. To congratulate you on your new baby. Lifts my heart with joy to think the two of you together again."

"Gianni, I can't—"

"No, no, I must insist on this, too. Go on and eat before it gets cold."

I chuckle. I too am suddenly ravenous. "It smells wonderful," I say. " _Mille grazie_."

"Ahh, Mr Mark, you're learning," he says, patting my upper arm near the shoulder. "Now go."

I don't wait for him to prod me a third time. 

When I arrive back to the flat, she's put the sleeping baby in the chair, and the chair on the table beside the sofa. She's sat on the sofa, dozing, her head resting on the folded elbow folding beneath her head, a magazine crumpled on the floor beside her, one she'd made some effort to page through. Better a magazine than the baby, I think with amusement to myself.

"Bridget," I say. She immediately wakes and sits upright.

"Oh God, I fell asleep, alone with the baby," she says. 

"Clearly, you're the world's greatest monster," I tease, sitting beside her, unpacking our lunch. "Gianni sends regards. And lunch. And dessert."

"What if something had happened and I was asleep?"

"Bridget, he's less than a day old. He can't go running off. If he'd started to cry, you'd have woken."

"But what if—"

"He's fine," I say. "And you have to sleep sometime. Best done while he's sleeping, too. Now eat."

After a few moments, she visibly relaxes. "Mark, when you make sense like that, I really want to throttle you," she teases back. "Oh, God, he really packed this container to the brim. Gnocchi for miles." I see the glint in her eye, though. I know how much she loves their food. "And oh God, this one's got tiramisu, doesn't it? Going to fall into a food coma."

I go and get some forks and some glasses of water with a little lemon (seems cruel to drink wine when she is still abstaining). I sit beside her. She makes a sniffing sound. "Did you have a drink?" she asks.

"Gianni insisted I have a little something in toast. You know Gianni."

She giggles. "Yes. I do."

We tuck in to our food and it, as always, is phenomenal. We don't speak again until we're nearly finished.

"How are you feeling, by the way?" I ask. 

"About time for a re-dose of the meds, I think."

"I'll get them for you."

"They're in my handbag."

I set down my dinner, rise, then place a kiss on her head before going to get the handbag.

As she enjoys the tiramisu, William begins to cry, and without a word I gather him up and take him into his nursery. I switch on a lamp in the corner, and, after a moment wondering why there were a series of deformed clowns on the far wall, I locate the nappies. I've read enough books to know how to do this. I watched the nurse earlier. I'm confident I can do this.

But watching a nurse, reading a book's one thing. A live, wriggling baby is another thing altogether.

I get most of the way through—the clean nappy is in place, and I'm about to dust him with some powder—when he decides to unleash a stream quite impressive for being less than a day old. Hurriedly I hold the nappy down, but it's too late for me. Or my shirt.

I can only laugh.

"Everything all right?" she calls from the other room.

"Just fine," I call back. "Though I will need to use your washer."

I get him changed again into a fresh nappy and a new little onesie, then wrap him in a blanket and turn to leave to see Bridget standing there. Her expression is one I shall always treasure: her eyes soft and shining, her smile tender, her lower lip trembling.

I hand over the baby then strip down and out of all of my clothes in order to wash them. In lieu of a dressing gown I resort to draping a blanket around me. Once I get the laundry rolling we sit together, me picking at the remains of the tiramisu, the baby sleeping again, Bridget leaning against my shoulder.

"I can watch him if you want to have a bath," I say.

"I can't have a bath," she says. "Stitches."

"A shower. Cleaning up."

"Are you trying to tell me something?" she says, teasing. But then she sighs. "I guess I could use some hot water."

"Want a hand?"

"Ooh. Tempting, but I'll go this round alone."

She lifts her head, places her hand on my face. "Might be the drugs and the tiramisu talking," she says, "but I'm _so_ happy right now, Mark."

So mundane, but I wouldn't have changed it for anything for the world.

………

My parents turn back up at about eight in the evening with takeaway from, of all places, Le Pont de la Tour. I'm cleanly dressed again, as is Bridget, though in track bottoms and an old sweatshirt. They don't seem to mind, and after a brief visit with William, they depart again.

"You don't have to go again so soon," I say, seeing them to the door.

"You deserve some time together as a family," says my mother. My father nods in agreement.

"Well then. Drive safely," I say, leaning to peck her cheek. My father surprises me with a brief hug.

The food is, of course, without par, and we sit and eat it at the dining room table with candlelight and William sleeping in his chair beside us. I take her hand.

William needs a feeding, and when his nappy is changed again, and he's down for the night, when we turn on the baby monitor, then we retire to her bed.

"You know we can't…" she says.

"I know," I tell her, then fold her into my embrace, kissing her deeply. And sleeping with her in my arms was the best night sleep I have had in months.

………

She doesn't really want to live in the house in Ealing I that shared with Camilla, and I can't say that I blame her. So while that house is up for sale, while we look for something new, I'm staying in her flat. I always liked it best there, anyway. It feels a bit strange to not be working—paternal leave—but my days are filled with learning and getting to know my son, and love. So much love.

Tonight, with William three months of age, Bridget and I have a proper dinner date. 

Magda is here to take William over to spend the night with her family. Bridget's prepared bottles for his feedings. Magda is all too happy to have him over. I think she suspects I am up to something.

She's right.

We could go anywhere for our date, but we go to Gianni's, just a few yards down Bedale Street from the door up to her flat. Gianni is beside himself to see us; we've taken William for walks around Borough Market and he's fawned plenty over the boy, but he's just so glad to see us together again as a couple, on our own.

"Miss Bridget, you look so beautiful, so _happy_ ," he gushes, taking her hand in one of his and pressing a delicate kiss on the back.

"I feel exhausted and less than beautiful, but thank you for that."

I know I'm biased, but I think she looks beautiful, too. She's wearing a blue dress with a low neckline and a flared skirt, not too form-fitting because she still feels a little self-conscious; it pulls taut over her breasts, which are still a bit larger than before the pregnancy. I find I can't keep my eyes from them, from that area just below where her floating heart necklace rests. 

"Mark," she says, and my gaze lifts. She's smirking. "Stop staring."

"I'm not staring," I say. "I'm _appreciating_." She tints pink in a fetching blush, and squeezes the hand that holds her own.

We sit at the table by the window; it's June, so the sun's still in the sky, though the tall building across the street has the restaurant in shadow. Gianni has lit the candle, so between the glow of the fading sun and the glow of the flame, it's a beautiful, warm, cosy feeling.

He brings us wine and our favourite starters—and then lets us be, hovering at the periphery for signals that we're ready for more wine, or for the main course.

"I was thinking," I say, "that it might be nice to move out of Ealing, back into the Holland Park area or thereabouts. Closer to work. What do you think?"

"I hadn't really thought of it," she says, "but your house before was nice, so as long as it's not all white inside—" I chuckle. "I guess that'd be okay. Oh, but isn't it expensive there?" 

"It's expensive everywhere in London, darling," I say. "But it's within our budget."

"Is it? Huh," she says. She smiles. "That's always going to surprise me."

"What will?"

"Being an adult. With an actual salary, not living on pot noodles."

I can't help smiling. "You're not an impostor," I say. "You're a successful producer—"

"— _was_ ," she corrects.

"A successful producer," I repeat, "the owner of a flat in the middle of Borough Market, and, believe it or not, the pride of Grafton Underwood." I've been in touch with Richard Finch, an unexpected ally, still working on things with Hard News—her career is not at an end, despite what she thinks.

"No, I think _you_ are the pride of that town."

I scoff. "I've done some important things at work, but I've never done some of the things you've been so brave doing. Now. I assume you'll be having dessert? It's rather a momentous occasion. First date post-baby."

I see a smile curl the corner of her mouth. "I shouldn't."

"But you will," I say, insistently. "Gianni. Bring over dessert, please."

I catch Gianni's little wink, but she does not. "You bet, Mr Mark," he says. "The usual, eh?"

"Absolutely. And a couple of decaf espressos."

Gianni smiles, bows slightly at the waist, then retreats.

"It's such a beautiful night," she says. "Maybe after this we can take a stroll along the river." At the expression that surely crosses my face, she smiles; she knows that I hope to return to the flat after dinner and take her to bed, something I haven't been able to properly do in far too long due to the birth.

I lean in close, speak quietly. "We can open the window and let in the night breeze while I—" I break off just as Gianni approaches with the espresso. Without a word, he backs away again, and I brush my hand along her knee. "Well. I think you know."

"I do indeed, Mr Darcy," she said, smirking impishly.

Gianni returned a second time, this time with a serving of tiramisu, as well as a cannoli thick with chocolate on both ends, and he places this in front of Bridget. She furrows her brow. "What's this?"

"Is cannoli, special, just for you," Gianni says. "I hope you like."

He backs away again, but only as far as the bar.

"Well," she says. "Just for me." She picks it up but quickly realises that it's lighter than she expects. She takes a bite and the cannoli's pastry shatters in her grasp. "Oh." It's hollow in the centre. Hollow of the creamy ricotta filling anyhow. "Oh my God," she said. "Mark."

She looks up at me, the prize from its centre now in resting in her palm.

"Oh, my," I say. "What have you there?"

She has tears in her eyes. "I think you know what it is, you absolute madman," she says. She holds it up in trembling fingers, brushing crumbs from the ring. The diamond Tiffany solitaire that I had Gianni place in there for me.

"Mm. Yes. Well." I take the ring from her hand and say, "I think you probably know what I'd like to ask you, then."

"Are you sure?" she asks.

"Bridget, I know my track record on this sort of thing is… less than stellar." I pause, watching as she puts a hand over her mouth for a moment, then almost as quickly takes it away. 

"'Less than stellar,'" she says, then smiles. "'Appalling', more like."

"Well, there's a big difference this time, Bridget," I say. "I love you, I've _always_ loved you, and now with William here…" She looks unconvinced. "I have never been more sure about anything in my life."

"And I love you," she says. "But how can we guarantee we don't fall into the same traps?"

"We can only give it our best shot," I tell her. "But we definitely won't succeed if we don't at least try." 

"We tried this before, Mark," she says. "For five years. And we couldn't do it."

We've been happy these last three months, but I understand her doubts. I remember her comments from the letter the morning after William was conceived, words burned upon my brain: _We always loved the fantasy of us. But the reality, as we both know, is quite different._ I reach and take her free hand with mine, the one that's not holding the ring. "This time is different," I say. "I'm more determined than ever to succeed. I know now what it's like to live without you." As I say this, my voice breaks with emotion. I clear my throat and continue. "I'll do better, because I do truly love you… and I'll never leave you."

At this the tears escape and trail down her cheeks. "So ask, then," she says. Her lower lip's trembling.

"Bridget," I say. "Will you marry me?"

Without hesitation, she says, grasping my free hand with both of hers, "Yes, Mark. Of course I will."

From behind us, raucous applause. I turn to see Gianni and his often-talked-about-but-rarely-seen brother Sergio leading the entire restaurant in congratulations. I feel the temperature around my collar flare up with my embarrassment—not at being caught proposing, but for the spotlight on such an emotional and personal moment.

Yet, I find myself not caring. I reach for her left hand and slip on the ring. She rises from her seat as I do, and we embrace, then kiss, then embrace again.

"Mark," she whispers. "Let's go home."

"What about dessert?"

"Take it home for later," she says. "We have a little time to make up for and a flat to ourselves."

I tighten my arms around her for a moment, then release her from the embrace. And then I do as my fiancée requests.

Soon we're upstairs. She asks me to give her a moment, so I take the opportunity to safely stow the dessert in the refrigerator, then slip out of my own shoes, suit jacket, and tie before I go to the bedroom. She's not in there. I suspect she's freshening up in the bathroom, so I undress, reach to light a pillar candle on the nightstand, and then slip under the sheets to wait for her to join me.

I don't have to wait long. She stands in the doorway. Her hair is loose and on her shoulders in a tumble of waves. She's smiling shyly, dressed in a red silk nightie that looks remarkably like one I'd bought her many years ago, only a little longer and with lace on the lower hem. My reaction is predictable, like a bull with a red flag moving in his sights. I hold out my hand to her and when she takes it I pull her roughly down to the bed, then take her in my arms, pull her up against me, take her mouth with mine.

I would have thought that so much time without sex with her would have turned me animalistic. Fortunately, the intimacy we _have_ been able to share had apparently tempered this urge. All I want to do is revere her.

I run my hand up her thigh, raising the hem of the silken nightie, plying her with long, languid kisses. We sit up briefly so that I can pull the nightie up and off of her, throwing it aside to the chair by the closet, and then turn my attention to her breasts as I lean her back down again. The full swell fills my palm as I kiss one, then the other.

My hand moves over her skin as I continue a trail up to her collarbones, her neck and throat, returning to kiss her lips again. I rake my nails over her hip, hear her suck a quick breath in through her teeth. I stroke then cup her backside, pulling her against me; I can feel her arch up further as I tease between her legs with my fingers. Her motion beneath me is not without its own effects and I sense that now's the time for protection. (And not the expired, dolphin-safe, vegan protection.)

It's tough to pull myself away in order to perform this task, but I do, and I do it with haste so that I can return to her. Her arms embrace me, and her hands roam over my own skin, flitting with feather lightness and pinpoint accuracy. I groan at her touch, pushing her knee aside, moving between her legs and caressing the skin of her inner thigh, grazing my nails over the softness there. Then I move my fingers to the—God help me and damn Dr Rawlings, I can only think of her words in the hospital room—front door of my favourite pub and let myself in.

She lets out a sound very like a strangled cry.

" _Jesus_ ," she pants.

"Let's leave him out of it, shall we?" I growl, then shift so that I can thrust forward. She moans in concert with me. At first I restrain myself, but with her nails digging hard into my back, I take the hint and let passion lead the way. Her escalating sounds of pleasure tell me I'm doing something right, particularly when I bring my right hand down between us to help her along. 

And then I press my mouth to hers as she comes to capture her cries as I continue my thrusts, so close to coming, until I do.

When I'm spent, I gather her up and roll onto my side, keeping her close to me. She nuzzles into my neck, placing tender kisses on my skin as we both try to regain our breath.

"Oh, God," she breathes against my skin. Her hand brushes against my chest. I think it's a response to our glorious re-consummation, but then she adds, "Just realised that I left the window open."

I chuckle, then squeeze her tight. "Hope there's no one down there to be shocked by our little show."

"Shocked… or titillated." She raises her head up to look into my eyes. "Worth the wait."

"Indeed," I say. "Everything's all right, I hope. Didn't… hurt you, did I?"

"No," she said, her lazy, sated smile a beautiful thing. "Quite the opposite."

"Glad to hear it." I bring up a hand, combing her hair back with slightly trembling fingers. "After all, I wouldn't mind another go."

"Oooh," she says, moving against me. "Mr _Darcy_."

………

"Third time's the charm, eh, Darce?"

This, from the as-always utterly clueless Jeremy, though he does smile, so I suspect that he is well-meaning and sincere. "Certainly banking on it," I say, as I take William from Magda's arms. He smiles and makes a soft coo and I'm filled with love for him all over again. "Didn't cause you any trouble, did he?"

"Not a lick of it," says Jeremy. He casts a glance over to where Bridget is showing her friend the engagement ring. Magda looks ecstatic, her eyes damp with tears of happiness. "Gorgeous ring, by the way. Who'd you get to help pick it out?"

"No one," I say, feigning offense. "I'm a big proponent of the classics. Can't go wrong with Tiffany."

"True enough, mate. True enough." He claps me on the shoulder. "Well done, Mark. In all seriousness. She's the best. But I don't think I have to tell you that."

"Indeed. You do not."

"And I guess it also goes without saying…" He waggles his brows. "…your date night went well?"

"Spectacular," I say, casting another glance to Bridget, the love of my life, the mother of my son, just as she glances up to see me looking. She smiles, and so do I, then she looks down again almost coquettishly. At this, I try to will Jeremy and Magda to leave as soon as possible, because I am seriously in need of taking her in my arms again, and William is sound asleep and clean of nappy.

My thought-vibe prowess appears to do the trick, and after she escorts them to the door, after I set the sleeping baby down into his bassinette, I return to her and I smile.

"What's that look about?" she asks, grinning.

"I think you know." My voice is unexpectedly throaty.

"Oh, you're adorable," she says, coming close to me, placing a hand on my cheek. "But now the word's out. If I don't start making phone calls right now, Shaz and Jude… my _mother_ … will never speak to me again."

I concede the point, reach up, take her hand, and kiss the palm then trace a circle there with the tip of my tongue. I see her lids flicker but remain steady. 

"Naughty," she says. 

"Not at all," I say. "I'm a _nice_ boy. Remember?" I slip my arm about her waist. "But… I take your point. I don't want to get in Sharon's and Jude's bad books so soon after we're back together."

She grins lopsidedly. 

"You call your parents, and I'll call mine—"

"—At the same time so there's no fighting about who found out first."

I have to laugh. She's right.

In fact, I use my phone—an iPhone ostensibly from the baby on Father's Day—to call my parents, who have suddenly expressed an interest in a smart phone in order to get FaceTime with the baby.

"Mark, darling, to what do we owe the pleasure?" asks my mother; she has taken to the technology like a duck to water. I hear Bridget talking to Pam, too.

"We have good news," I say; then we stand together with our phones aloft.

"Another baby already?" asks my father.

"No, no," says Bridget, turning pink. Then she holds up her left hand. "I said yes."

The four of them go mad with congratulations.

"Oh!" says Pam. "Did we know, Elaine, or did we know?"

"We knew, Pam, we certainly did."

"We shall have to have a celebratory luncheon…"

"Name the time and the day, and we'll happily come," I say, not wanting to get sucked into planning a huge to-do, and not wanting Bridget to get sucked into it either. We have enough to think about. Finding a new house. Moving house. Planning a wedding.

"Mum, Dad, have other calls to make, but just wanted you to be the first to know."

We say our goodbyes to her parents and mine, and then she calls Sharon, then Jude, then Miranda. While she speaks with Tom I come up behind her, raise up the hem of her shirt, crouch down, and then plant a kiss in the small of her back. She makes a soft squealing sound and bids Tom a hasty goodbye.

William isn't going to stay asleep forever.

She spins around; I fix my hands to her hips again, looking up to her. Funny how rejuvenated I feel since we've been together. I press my lips to her skin again, just on her navel, swirling around it with my tongue.

"Naughty," she says; her fingers weave into my hair.

"Mmm," I say against her skin. I bring my hands around to her backside, kneading and pressing her into me, then reaching for the elastic waist of her trackie bottoms, and pulling them (and her pants) down.

"Mark," she manages as they clear her knees.

"Hmm." I hum this as I begin placing open-mouthed kisses against her stomach, then hip. I bring my hands up again, sliding one between her legs. She gasps; I feel her knees quiver in the effort to keep her standing. Then she falls, with my guidance, down to the sofa.

I kneel between her knees and begin to kiss her inner thigh.

"Mark," she manages. "Condom…."

"Shhh, darling," I say, then carry on with my ministrations, for which I do not need said condom. I draw her hips to the edge of the cushion, lift her legs over my shoulders, and then drop down to give her a long, thorough kiss.

Within moments she us arching up into me, and I grasp her hips to hold her steady. She groans and grasps the cushions. I can feel her climax building fast, so I bring one hand up to help her reach it even faster.

And she cries out though she tries to stifle it in the hopes that I won't be able to tell that I can feel her come again and again; only when I feel her hand on my hair do I relent and raise my head, turning then kissing her left thigh, then her right one. I then look at her.

She looks completely blissed out, smiling blearily at me. "Come here," she says. I obey, kneeling beside her. 

"That was above and beyond," she manages.

"Nonsense," I say, tracing my fingers along her cheek.

"You must be aching for relief."

I can't deny it, so I say, "If you're up for it."

She makes a tsk sound. "Just try to stop me. Wait. That sounds terrible."

"I know what you mean, darling," I say.

Her eyes glance down then back to meet mine. "Your current position is proving an obstacle."

It's true. I'm kneeling on the floor, and I'm only just realising what a terrible idea this is for my poor knees. I manage to lift myself up to sit upon the sofa. She shifts so that she rests partially upon my lap.

She then undoes my trousers. I am still well ready for her, and she wastes no time grasping me, stroking me, licking a path along the length of me. Her touch is extraordinary, and I know at once I'm not going to last long. Then I feel the warmth and wetness of her mouth as she takes me in. I'm lost in ecstasy at the feel of her moving up and down, swirling her tongue on me, pulling her lips tight as she moves up and down, bringing me ever close to climax. When I feel the feather-light touch of her fingers on my abdomen, then thighs, then to stroke and cup me, I suddenly tense as I come, and come hard. She grabs my hip and doesn't let up, not until I'm totally spent. She withdraws, then turns her head to kiss my thigh, nuzzle into my stomach.

"I love you too," I hear her say, which makes me realise I must have said it first. I feel her shift to sit up, feel her hand against my cheek, then her fingers comb through my hair. "Satisfied?"

I open one eye and train it on her. "Yes," I say. "For now."

She giggles a little, just as I hear the baby start to make some noise from the other room. She sighs. "We'll renegotiate for a little more time later, if you're up for it."

"I am, darling," I say. "I will be. You give me life."

Maybe, just maybe, real life can be better than the fantasy of us.

_The end._

**Author's Note:**

> [History of police ranks in the UK](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Police_ranks_of_the_United_Kingdom#History_of_police_ranks).
> 
> [24-hour delivery - Italian restaurant in London](https://www.yelp.co.uk/biz/la-forchetta-london-4?osq=24+Hour+Food+Delivery).
> 
> [How long to women stay in hospital after giving birth in the UK?](http://www.babycentre.co.uk/x1046220/how-long-will-i-stay-in-hospital-after-the-birth)
> 
> [NHS page for University College Hospital, London](http://www.nhs.uk/Services/hospitals/Facilities/DefaultView.aspx?id=1029#FacilityGroupProxy238826e3a23e423d984b4236a503d684-6).
> 
> [Tiffany engagement ring](http://www.tiffany.com/engagement/rings/the-tiffany-setting/2,5carats-23872722). From the film's production notes:
>
>> With a wedding comes a ring and for Bridget, the team looked to Tiffany. Known as the Tiffany setting [eight-pronged and with a raised dome], her ring is designed to lift the diamond off the band, maximizing the stone's natural radiance. The Tiffany ring is the genuine article, valued at £55,000.00, and appropriate as it connected Bridget's to her younger self as one of the items to have survived the 15-year absence was her heart shaped Tiffany necklace. "We established the Tiffany heart in the first film, and it was taken through the second," says Noble. "It's a timeless piece. It's the Paloma Picasso* design, perhaps an 18th birthday present from Mum and Dad. It's something that's iconic to Bridget. Besides which, Renée was adamant that she wear it."
> 
> (* It's Elsa Peretti's design, not Paloma Picasso.)


End file.
